


pontificale et guerrière

by marschallin, SincereMercy



Category: Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: (the three genders: man; wife; martyr), Alternate Universe - Gender Changes, Battlefield Surgery, Canon Era, Complicated Relationships, Gender Issues, Guns, July Revolution, Multi, as in a literal household of three and not in a sexy way, combeferre is married, ménage à trois
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-06-05
Updated: 2020-07-18
Packaged: 2021-03-04 01:41:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,454
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24555613
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/marschallin/pseuds/marschallin, https://archiveofourown.org/users/SincereMercy/pseuds/SincereMercy
Summary: Former [almost] nun Michelle Enjolras, gravely disappointed in the state of mankind, has spent years preparing herself and her neighborhood for war. In July of 1830, the personal and political collide as Paris springs towards revolution.Essentially our take on what Enjolras [and the other Amis] would be like if she were AFAB. Based on a true story.
Relationships: Combeferre/Enjolras (Les Misérables)
Comments: 21
Kudos: 22





	1. Chapter 1

The atmosphere in the streets was an uneasy one, the sweltering heat of July bearing down upon the pavement and causing it to warp as if her vision were distorted. Enjolras looked about her and saw the way to the market oddly deserted.

Despite the empty streets, she heard the clamor of voices around the corner, and quickened her pace so as to see what event was taking place. She had her answer when she turned the corner and saw the crowd of people listening to a tall man in a short, torn coat who held a newspaper in his hand.

“... By consequence, no periodical or semi-periodical newspaper or writing, whether established or yet to be established, without distinction of the subjects treated in it, may be published, either in Paris or in the departments, except by virtue of the authorization that the authors and the printer will have obtained from us separately. This authorization must be renewed every three months.

“That is to say, Charles X declares that you may read, or write, only what he wishes you to read or write, and that the right of the press which we have held since the Revolution may be revoked at will. It means workers like us may be turned out into the street, with neither a severance nor a warning. _Le Moniteur, Le Constitutionnel_ and the _Journal des debats_ have already bent the knee-- to this false king, not to the people-- and have closed their doors. But you yourselves will not stand for such a thing!”

Enjolras felt that her heart was racing; it was a remarkable thing to hear a man speaking so. The raid on _Le National_ the previous evening had sparked some unrest, but to see the effects of it the following day-- to see that men were interesting themselves in discussing politics, and publicly-- was another thing entirely. She felt a wild thrill run through her, the sense that something was truly beginning.

Clutching her basket, she pressed forward against the mass of bodies, straining lest she miss even one word.

“Article Four: Newspapers and publications published in contravention of Article Two will be immediately seized; the presses and characters used for printing will be placed in a public warehouse and sealed, or put out of service.

“That is to say, neither your means nor your tools of labor belong to you. You are a serf, who labors at the pleasure of your feudal lord, Charles X, who may seize whatever of yours displeases him. His dogs the police have already raided the presses of _Le National._

“Will you give them up, surrender your liberties, surrender the Charter, that sacred document which reminds the King that he must answer to the people?”

“Down with the Bourbons!” cried a man directly to Enjolras’s left. Only then did she take her eyes off the speaker to look at the assembled crowd. Far from oppressing them, the summer heat seemed to radiate from the electric energy of the people-- an energy she felt deep within herself, ready to spring into action.

“Only the people may defend their liberties! Tell the King that the press will continue, that his claws have no power to take it from you!”

“Death to the king, death to Polignac!” This from a woman a few feet away, her fists balled in her checked apron. Enjolras tried to move closer to her, but the crowd meant she could do so only by inches. Any other time she would feel trapped, but this was like being one finger of a massive giant’s hand, one muscle of a massive outstretched arm. Then she thought: she had to find the others.

Enjolras was exhilarated. She had, she knew, a powder keg of friends spread across the city, ready to leap at the opportunity God had given them. She thought of Combeferre, probably still asleep at this hour but who had spent years patiently stitching pigskin, memorizing the difference between the double function of the external carotid artery, and the internal. There was Feuilly, probably donning her stained apron and sitting at her work desk this very moment. Courfeyrac, sitting down to breakfast and reading the very same ordinances as the man she had just been listening to. Bahorel was surely in the thick of this uncontrollable energy wherever she was. Jeanne Prouvaire might be doing up her hair, surrounded by terracotta pots of geraniums, while Joly squeezed lemon on her oysters, fresh from her father’s warehouse. Lesgles was probably sharing breakfast with Joly, her basket of stitching forgotten for the moment. She was not sure where Grantaire might be.

It took some maneuvering to push herself out of the crowd and into the open street. A man trod roughly on her foot and she hardly felt it; a woman swore at her and she ignored it easily. She might as well have been flying the whole way home.

Her familiar streets remained as sleepy as ever, though she knew that it would not be long before the excitement reached every corner of Paris. Upon reaching her corner house, she took the steps up to the front door two at a time and left her empty basket in the front hallway. She could smell strong coffee brewing in the kitchen and distantly heard an argument being waged over whether or not the young Mademoiselle needed a bath this morning. She ran up the three flights of stairs to her bedroom and shook the sleeping mass of blankets until it stirred.

“What is it?” A hand emerged from the blankets, fumbling on the bedside table for a pair of spectacles. There was a yawn and then out from the bedclothes came Combeferre, still puffy-faced from sleep. As was her custom in the summer heat, she was naked.

Enjolras crossed the room to her trunk and pulled out a very heavy quilt, made heavier by the cartridges sewn into the backing. She took a penknife from her desk and began methodically cutting the cotton squares open and retrieving her prizes. “We are needed.” She made a neat pile of cartridges on the floor and then pulled out her rifle and the little engraved pistol. “The press that was raided last evening, the ordinances, that has done it.”

There was a heavy silence, broken by a servant’s footsteps down the hall and the buzzing of a fly. Combeferre rose from the bed and began pulling fresh clothes from the wardrobe. “Ought I leave a note?”

“If you like.” Enjolras was distracted as she untangled a length of bandages from where it lay hidden among Combeferre’s hair ribbons. By the time she had gathered the necessary items, she had arranged a plan.

Tying the strings of her cap under her chin, Combeferre looked pale. “I will do so, and then say goodbye to the children.”

This time Enjolras was attentive enough to feel a flash of annoyance that made itself known in the tightness of her jaw, the pressure of her lips together. She did not have to admonish Combeferre to be quick about it; already her friend was scribbling something in pencil on rose-scented stationery. She folded the paper and put it in her pocket, then retrieved from behind the wardrobe the battered carpet bag where she kept her medical supplies.

“I will meet you downstairs,” Combeferre said. She carried the bag into the nursery as if frightened it would disappear.

On her way down, Enjolras stopped in Monsieur’s office and found his decanter of brandy. She knew that Combeferre would find use for it among the wounded, and that Combeferre would have qualms about taking from her husband. Enjolras had no such compunctions and put the brandy in her napsack, next to the cartridges and bandages.

She felt it was an eternity spent waiting in the foyer. Her pulse only barely quickened but her mind was reeling with tactics. Finally there were footsteps on the stairs and then Combeferre appeared in her new straw bonnet, looking grave. Well, good.

“Do you think they will be safe? The nursery looks out onto the streets, should I tell the girls to stay away from the windows?” There was a tremor in her voice and while Enjolras usually admired Combeferre’s maternal devotion, now she couldn’t help but wish that her friend had a little less of it.

“They are not yet tall enough to look out the windows. They will be fine. Have you extra lint and bandages in your bag?”

Combeferre nodded. “Where are we going?” They walked out into the July sunshine, already uncomfortably strong, and Enjolras shielded her eyes with her hand as she took in the quiet street.

“No further than our neighborhood.”

Combeferre’s shoulders relaxed. “Yes, let us see who is home, if Jeanne Prouvaire is willing to sacrifice her potted plants for artillery.”

Finally, Enjolras was pleased; she and Combeferre were of the same mind again. “Yes, we need Prouvaire, and we must distribute cartridges from Feuilly’s collection as well as from ours. Bahorel will be here at any moment, I am sure, and ready to tear up the paving stones. Will you--”

“I will see Prouvaire, and discover if she has enough glass as well,” Combeferre said, pre-empting her asking the same thing. Enjolras gave a rare smile and pressed their gloved hands together.

Then she was off to the laundry house, to set the chain in motion. Upon reaching the fountain at the mouth of the Rue Grenata, Enjolras noted that while the area was as crowded as ever, most of the women there were not at work; the spirit of the insurrection had taken hold of them as well. She addressed them with a lively energy, commanding their attention.

“Mathilde Dubois, I need you to go to the workshop and find Feuilly; we need her cartridges, and her presence. We must be ready before the fighting begins. Roux, when she returns, the three of you must distribute them among the sympathetic houses. Call on Philippine Leclerc, Marie Lachapelle, Annette Pape in Les Halles. All of you, make ready your own apartments. Collect whatever you may find to throw or to use for building material. Bonheur, your window has the best vantage-point aside from my own; when we start tearing up paving stones, we will deliver some to you.”

The women nodded each in turn and were off, and Enjolras watched with pride as they seperated into groups with their shoulders flung back like soldiers.

Turning back home, she was pleased to see that Combferre had the front door open and was directing a number of women as they carried out furniture. She herself had a basket of old linens under her arm.

“Here,” Enjolras cried, running up to help Prouvaire lift an armoire. Once they deposited it a few feet away, at the end of the street, they returned to fetch some chairs, a cradle, a mattress. In the parlour, Combeferre and Feuilly sat on the floor and ripped her pillowcases into strips without the slightest compunction. These preparations took some hours, and she was only just starting to tire when Courfeyrac appeared, holding a riding crop but without a bonnet.

“You missed luncheon,” Courfeyrac said cheerfully. “My, this street is missing a few paving stones.”

It was, Enjolras thought warmly, missing quite a number of paving stones at that point. “Yes. But where have you been?”

“I have told my fellow that I would like to borrow a horse and wagon for an outing this week; after some pestering, he agreed that I shall have it for tomorrow morning. That will furnish us with a tolerable means of transportation.”

“Are we to pick strawberries and drink champagne?” Joly, handing Courfeyrac some cartridges, laughed airily. “I should like nothing better in this heat.”

“I can think of only one thing better,” Courfeyrac said. The three of them shared a fond look, and Enjolras felt something stir inside her soul at the purity of their camaraderie and the absolute trust they shared. How many years had been spent carefully nosing out kindred spirits at lectures, salons, markets, laundry? How many hours had been spent feverishly melting lead and hoping to finish by the time Combeferre’s husband arrived home in expectation of supper? And now it had come to fruition; her kindred spirits were armed with cartridges made over the kitchen table.

* * *

It was past time for Combeferre’s husband to be home, Enjolras thought approvingly. He too must have felt the boundless energy of the streets and was doing his duty as a man, as a citizen, as a father of two young girls who deserved the rights of citizenship in their time. When she mentioned this to Combeferre, she only bowed her head and said that she hoped he was safe.

The sound and smell of musket fire was increasingly common, and each shot seemed to penetrate Enjolras, to infuse her with new passion and strength. Though she had spent the day engaged in manual labor, turning their quiet street into a sort of military fortress, she had never felt less fatigued. All around them, barricades sprang up like mushrooms after the rain. Each time she returned to the fountain at the mouth of the Rue Grenata, there would be another two, three, five little piles of furniture and wood blocking the Rue St. Denis.

Once their own street was well-prepared, with Enjolras’s friends erecting the skeleton of a barricade between the doors to her own house, she took her rifle with her in order to make observations. Intending, initially, to make her way to the home of Casimir Perier, where earlier that day there had been a meeting between the deputies and the journalists, she was stopped no further than the Rue Montmartre, where a group of citizens were engaged in combat with a contingent of the Royal Guard who were now occupying the Rue du Jour.

Distantly, she thought: This is my first battle. This is the first battle I have seen.

“Take care, citoyenne,” cried a rough-faced worker manning the barricade. “They have already murdered one of our women; you may see her body on display at the Place des Victoires.”

At that moment, with his head turned towards her, he fell. Enjolras raised her rifle and fired a shot in answer, but knelt to assess the damage to her own side rather than seeing that which she had effected upon the enemy.

“Take care yourself,” she murmured, not without compassion; he had taken a bullet to his right arm. The dark fabric of his coat had turned a muddy brown color, and his hand was slick with red. One of his comrades fumbled to wrap his arm in a makeshift bandage, stammering words of comfort. Another shot rang out.

“Look,” Enjolras cried, strapping her rifle to her back again. “He cannot stay here. I will find somewhere safe and someone to treat him.”

There was no time to discuss it; the wounded man’s comrade only nodded and helped his friend up, arranged him against Enjolras’s shoulder. She was surprised at his lightness, and how warm his blood felt against her.

“If you can walk a little, it will be a great help,” she said. “Say, what is your name?”

They set off down the street, stumbling and swaying a little on the cobblestones. The man, breathing heavily and smelling of sweat and something metallic, could walk a little, though not in a straight line. They were some yards away before he found the energy to speak.

“Daviau.” It was said through clenched teeth and Enjolras could feel his chest tense with the effort. “Citizen Daviau.”

“Well, Daviau, know you anyone on this street who will be sympathetic?”

He pointed to a house just as they rounded the corner onto the Rue Tiquetonne. Setting him up to lean against the outside wall, Enjolras rapped three times on the door to the house, which was answered with remarkable speed by a middle-aged woman. “Shelter him; I will return presently.”

She did not wait for an answer before hurrying back to her barricade, to Combeferre. First, she met Lesgles, who paled at her bloody gown.

“It is not my own blood. Where is Combeferre? There is a man gravely wounded--” Lesgles pointed to the edge of the barricade, where Combeferre was pulling some old furniture: a leather armchair, a piano bench, a little wooden table. Enjolras ran towards her. “I am unhurt,” she cried, anticipating her reaction. “Where is your bag? I need you.”

Combeferre held her bag in one hand and touched Enjolras’s sleeve with the other. “I am here.”

It could not have taken even five minutes for her to find Combeferre and then to return, but the knowledge that a patriot’s life was at stake made it feel an eternity as she rounded the corner again and directed Combeferre to the house where she had left Daviau.

“I have never stitched anything but pigskin,” Combeferre murmured.

“There is no one else to save him. His life hangs in the balance. Certainly I have no knowledge of such things.” She said the words solemnly, but she reached out to touch Combeferre’s cheek as she spoke them. “If you can only prolong his life mere minutes, you will be giving him minutes that would otherwise have been lost. And you are capable of that.”

When they entered the house, she noted Daviau, laid out on a small mattress on the ground floor, and the middle-aged woman from earlier who was kneeling before him, and had removed his shirt, balled it up and pressed it to the wound. Enjolras averted her eyes promptly; this was not a scene which concerned her. Still, she stayed a while, for Combeferre’s sake rather than Daviau’s.

It proved unnecessary. Once Combeferre began attending to the man’s injuries, her doubts appeared to vanish and a calm, authoritative certainty took their place.

“Now Monsieur, will you try and ball your hand into a fist for me? Ah, I understand it is very painful but it is important if I am to ascertain the extent of the wound. Good, good. You are strong! Madame, have you a basin of cool water? Oh, thank you kindly. Now, I am going to make sure that no fragments of the bullet remain, and close the flesh with a simple stitch.”

A certain sense of admiration took hold of her to witness Combeferre this way, but she understood that to linger here and watch would be a waste of her energies when there was still more important work to be done. The barricade she had pulled Daviau from, and their small contingent of armed citizens, were what stood between a large contingent of the Royal Guard and the relative peace and safety of her own neighborhood. Were they allowed to penetrate deeper into her quarter, they would lose the advantage of easy navigation or communication between the other barricades. So much for Courfeyrac and her wagon, for access to the tannery or-- most crucially of all-- to the public fountains. So, after staying long enough to ascertain that Combeferre was not in need of her, she returned to the barricade on the Rue Montmartre.

Upon her arrival, as she mounted the barricade and readied her weapon, there was a general cheer, though Enjolras suspected that this was more out of a desire to find something to cheer about than a reaction to her specifically.

“It is Marianne returned to see us drive the enemy out!” cried a worker at the head of the barricade. The feeling of disdain that arose inside of her was almost distracting; she would not be an empty figurehead to these men, and though the implication was no less than she had come to expect from a person of his sex, under ordinary circumstances she would correct him sharply.

These were not ordinary circumstances. The leg of a table shattered immediately next to her, and her attention snapped to the battle at hand. Enjolras returned fire, watching with satisfaction as a figure on the other end of the street fell. There was another cheer from the men beside her.

How easily it came to her. Though she had practiced incessantly, attacking old bottles and handmade targets, going on endless hunting trips to bag rabbit and once even a mouflon as tall as her-- Still, she had wondered how she would hold up in a real battle. Now, however, she had not the slightest uncertainty.

“But how fares Daviau?” asked a man immediately to her right. The explosive sound of gunfire around them meant the question was shouted, though this time it was addressed directly to her. She turned, only for a moment, noting his dark curly hair and his short coat. In fact it was the speaker she had seen outside of the fish market that morning. Then she returned her concentration to reloading her weapon.

“He is in excellent hands,” she shouted back. She had no time to dedicate to any more detailed questions. She raised her rifle again and fired upon a lone figure atop the enemy barricade. He fell. He was not replaced.

A final cheer erupted from her comrades as they heard the order to retreat from the other end of the street. The worker to her right erupted into an energetic cry: “You will not take the Quarter St. Honoré!” This unexpected expression of neighborhood affinity warmed her, at the same time as a breathless sensation overtook her: it was over that quickly, and it was just beginning.

Moments later, the lot of them climbed to the other side of the barricade, and the man in the short coat turned to her with a bright smile and a stone he had taken from the ground. “We are breaking the lanterns along the street here. Would you like to do the honors, citizen?”

She felt an instinctual camaraderie with this stranger, and felt distantly that it must be those bonds that one reads of, forged in war and inexplicable out of it. Well, if their battle could ignite the nation, why not a friendship?

She felt her lips stretch into a surprising smile of her own. “I would.”


	2. Chapter Two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wednesday, 28 July 1830.
> 
> The next day dawns. There is a debate about the hygiene of ambulance carts, and Enjolras establishes a base of operations.

With the lamps smashed, the street was darker than Enjolras had ever seen it. She had only ever seen such darkness in the country, where on clear nights she could look up and see the bright band of the Milky Way. Listening to Combeferre explain to her their position relative to the other stars in the galaxy had been something like, now, comprehending where their little battle stood amidst a city alive with gunfire and barricades.

Theirs was not the only lampless neighborhood, either. All throughout Paris, the streets were going to sleep, forcing a temporary end to their conflicts. The battle over, and the city too dark for effective reconnaissance, Enjolras would return home for a sleep of her own. She spoke with her new friend long enough only to establish that she would see him at the tannery the following morning no later than 7:30, before bidding him goodnight and traveling the few streets home.

She passed their barricade, swollen with familiar old furniture, and slipped through the front door, still sturdy. Home seemed terribly strange, missing a chair here and a stool there, and yet familiar and warm. Combeferre’s piano stood in the parlor as it always did, now benchless. The guest room was missing a mattress. Joly and Lesgles played cards on the drawing room carpet in lieu of a table, yawning and waving at her. 

“It will be an early start tomorrow,” she said, stern but affectionate. “Be sure to get some rest.” 

“Of course.” Lesgles hid another yawn in the crook of her elbow. Her hair had come undone and a false front hung awkwardly down the back of her scalp. Enjolras smiled at it and turned into her bedroom. She only needed a few hours’ rest. She was tired, yes, but there was a satisfaction in the ache of her muscles and the smell of gunpowder that clung to her. 

Combeferre sat on the bed twisting her hair into a tight plait, her chemise hanging off her shoulder, still loosened after attending to her younger child. “Your friend— Daviau— he will live.” She smiled and tied the end of her braid. “It was a neat piece of stitching, I admit.”

“Of course it was.” Enjolras turned so that Combeferre could unfasten the ties of her gown, unlace her stays. “I never had a moment of doubt that you would save him. You are brilliant.” 

“Well, we will see how I do tomorrow. We’re almost all here— Bahorel is staying with Jeanne Prouvaire, but Feuilly is in the guest room; Courfeyrac is camping out on the parlor sofa, and I have told Joly and Bossuet that they may have the master bedroom, since my dear husband has disappeared.” 

Here, Enjolras interrupted. “He hasn’t disappeared, he is doing his duty. He is a good man, Denise, and you should be proud of him.”

There was a pause before Combeferre spoke again. “Yes, and it is very convenient for us.”

“Is it? Wouldn’t you rather he were fighting on our barricade?” Enjolras slid out of her clothes, down to her chemise. She felt acutely the day’s sweat heavy on her skin, and Daviau’s blood caked on her hands.

When Combeferre did not answer, Enjolras continued on. “Tomorrow we will surely face a more robust opposition. We must be ready to defend our city, and not only our own street. I would have you in an ambulance tomorrow, going to where-ever there is need of you.”

“Courfeyrac’s wagon.”

“Yes, or any other vehicle— so long as it is large enough to carry you and the wounded.” Enjolras took a breath before plunging her face into the basin of water. Dripping, she emerged and found a towel to dry herself. “Joly has some skill in nursing, no?”

“Yes, quite.”

“Then she shall have an ambulance too. Can you come up with a list of ten or so women who won’t lose their head at the sight of blood?” As she spoke, she scrubbed at herself and watched the water in the basin turn a rusty brown. 

“Of course.”

Enjolras was in her nightgown and maneuvering her curls into her nightcap before Combeferre spoke again. “The girls were frightened by the gunfire. It took a while to get them to sleep.” 

“I imagine so.” What else could she say? She sat down on the bed and sighed as the pressure was removed from her tired feet. Combeferre had pulled her chemise off and was lying on her back, head turned to the side and eyes fixed on the wall, where the paint had begun to chip a little. 

“When you first spoke to me of revolution, it was like when you spoke of heaven— I wasn’t sure if I really believed you that it would come.” She removed her spectacles, folded them, and set them on the bedside table. “And now it is all happening so quickly.” 

Enjolras turned to face Combeferre and touched her bare shoulder. “That was a long time ago.”

“Yes, before marriage, children, before this ghastly tiny house that turns into an oven every summer—“ She rubbed her hands over her eyes. 

“I like this house,” Enjolras said mildly. She lowered her hand so her fingertips brushed idly against Combeferre’s breast. “I remember when it was you who was convincing _me_ to stay, that God was calling me to deliver a reckoning to the world of mankind and not to a quiet life of prayer.”

“We were children ourselves then.”

And yet it wasn’t so long ago, was it? Enjolras, still in her dark convent dresses, longing for the sisterhood she had once known— and then there was Combeferre, stuffed into tight silks and curled and crimped and underneath all of it, burning so brightly. They made a funny pair, talking with such enthusiasm that no one dared approach them, not even men. They would talk from the moment they woke until the moment they fell asleep and still wake with more to say. 

Enjolras’s heart swelled to remember those days, when it seemed they were the only two people in the world, before Denise Combeferre became Madame Pasquet. She had known then, vaguely, that Combeferre would have to share her affections one day, with a husband, with children; she had not accounted for how much it would hurt to watch her friend’s attention be continually pulled from her, from her passions, and instead be directed at the inanities of womanhood. 

Yes, a woman needs a husband and yes, she had known that Combeferre was eager to set Rousseau into practice, to have her own child to mould. But two? And the terrible births, the red stripes like war wounds still burned into Combeferre’s middle. The constant cries of _“Maman, maman”_ when Combeferre was sitting down to her anatomy studies, her fossils, her hieroglyphics. The way her husband eyed her in the evenings, even now that she had made plain that she would not risk it, not risk another, not risk her life to produce child after child like a machine with one purpose— Enjolras shuddered.

“What is wrong?” 

Enjolras tried to smile. “Just remembering. Try to sleep; you will have to rise early tomorrow.” She pressed a kiss to her cheek and then settled down against the mattress. She could feel her heart thudding in her chest and closed her eyes to pray, reflecting upon the glorious future ahead of them and finding her mind quickly put at ease. She slipped easily from prayer to sleep.

For the first time in years, she dreamt of the convent. It was spring, and the _cœurs de marie_ were blooming, and there were children playing jump-rope amongst the hedges. A sister knitted stockings for the poor, another collected herbs in a little basket. She smiled at them, and they smiled back. This was home. She had forgotten how it felt to be at peace in her home, in her world, to live with her soul bared to all and not carefully guarded against the trespasses of men. Before her mind was filled with thoughts of war.

She woke imagining that peace given to all mankind under the Republic. Smiling, she extended her hand towards the other side of the bed and found to her surprise that it was empty. Quickly, she rose and washed herself again, finding a few rust-colored flecks still on her arm. Then she dressed. 

While yesterday she had been inconspicuous, today she wore the clothes she’d inherited from her mother: the white petticoat, the bodice that nearly resembled a waistcoat, the men’s redingote with the wide lapels. She looked in the mirror. The woman who looked back at her had already seen the revolution, and had come out the other side into a changed world. Enjolras grabbed her final accessory, her rifle, and made her way down the two flights of stairs.

Courfeyrac and Combeferre sat in the parlour, drinking coffee and speaking in low voices. Upon seeing Enjolras, they brightened and both began speaking at once. 

“All is in chaos—“

“You have no idea the excitement in the streets—“

“Already Paris has risen!”

Enjolras raised a hand to silence them and smiled. “You are both excited yourselves, I see.” She took a cup of coffee from Courfeyrac and sipped at it. “A rare day indeed for Madame Pasquet to rise before eight o’clock.”

Though the teasing was affectionately given, Combeferre blushed a little. “Genevieve had a nightmare and woke me around four, and I wasn’t able to fall back asleep.” 

There was no use enquiring as to the nightmare’s contents.

“We don’t have a great deal of time for breakfast, I’m afraid,” said Enjolras, making short work of her own eggs and toast. “Even so early. I need you to find the ten women we spoke of last night, and meet me at the _Place des Victoires_. Courfeyrac, your wagon-- will you be able to maneuver it towards the city hall of the third arrondissement? You will make it there a little after we do.”

Courfeyrac seemed intrigued. “You will be forming your ambulance there?”

“Yes. We have not prepared for so long only to take a defensive position and protect our neighborhood, but rather to aid the revolution. There is not much of strategic importance for the Guard, here. And—”

“—the fighting will be hotter there, at the _Place des Victoires_.” Courfeyrac had a fiery spark in her eyes and a wicked grin on her face.

“Precisely. But we had better leave as quickly as possible, before the fighting begins and they reinforce their positions.”

Combeferre and Courfeyrac stood at the same time with a clatter of china. They worked in tandem to tie each other’s bonnets (Courfeyrac’s borrowed from Combeferre) and button their gloves, and Enjolras could not help but smile. What funny sisters they made in their revolutionary convent. 

She fetched her own hat— like the rest of her dress, it had belonged to her mother during the first revolution— and stepped into the street. Their barricade seemed a little taller, prouder in the morning light. Lesgle stood on a complicated and unsteady ladder of furniture to see over the top, aided by Combeferre’s astronomical telescope. Bahorel, sleeves rolled up to her elbows, waved. 

“Good morning!” Her booming voice carried far. “See what mischief has sprung up in the night! We have set a trend.”

“Barricades are rather in style now,” Joly drawled as she cut from a wheel of cheese to pass to the other women gathered around. “It’s a good thing, too; They are much easier to manage than gigot sleeves.” Her own rather magnificent sleeve supports had come out in the night and seemed to have been repurposed as pillows. In consequence, the once full sleeves of her cotton dress were rather limp. 

Still teetering precariously, Lesgle invited Enjolras to look through Combeferre’s telescope, but Enjolras shook her head and held her hand up. Amusing as the concept was, and perhaps not without practical use, they had precious little time to spare before it would become impossible to travel unimpeded. 

“Comrades, we are relocating to the _Place des Victoires_. I will not see our street left undefended, however. Feuilly, I would see you in charge of our section here, aided by Lesgle and Prouvaire. Send a message if you decide to move after all, or if anything goes wrong. Joly, we are putting together a group of nurses; join them. Bahorel, you know the men. If you can find a half-dozen decent fellows, bring them and find Courfeyrac.”

“You are planning something exciting,” said Bahorel, climbing, or rather leaping, from her perch on the barricade. “Well, if you are forming an ambulance, you will need a surgeon; shall I pluck one of those from the streets for you as well?”

She was right. Combeferre, genius that she was, could not be expected to be in charge of a field hospital; her husband would serve that purpose admirably were he here, but he was not, and she could not count on his safe return that day. She felt some of Combeferre’s concern from the previous day, and hoped that he was alright. 

But she could not distract herself thinking about these other matters. “Yes, do so. I am going, I will see you there.” The prospect of being late to the meeting she had arranged was one that bothered her, and not only for practical reasons. Fortunately, the tannery was a very short distance away. It was the first time she would consider that fortunate; the pungent smell of rotting flesh and ammonia that penetrated through their windows on hot summer days was one she did not relish. 

A short distance down the Rue Montorgeuil, a left onto the Rue Mauconseil, across from the covered passageway that would allow their unobstructed travel, and she was there.

To her surprise, not only was her friend already at their meeting place, but he had brought out the pair of tanners’ carts which she had intended on using. She found herself impressed by his foresight. 

“Good morning,” he called gaily. “I thought you might have need of these!” 

Enjolras smiled and ran her hand over the edge of one of the carts, feeling the rough, strong wood. “You thought right, Citizen—?” But then, how strange that she had not a name for her new friend, only a curious feeling of approval.

“Éparvier. Citizen Éparvier.” Éparvier’s face was flushed, from the heat, Enjolras assumed.

“I am Enjolras. My comrades and I can fetch men from battle and provide immediate care, but we must have somewhere safe to bring them.”

“A hospital.”

Enjolras nodded. “A headquarters. It must be large enough to house a number of men, small enough it is not a target, in a defensible area, but close enough to the fighting that it is not a great inconvenience to maneuver the carts through the streets. We have chosen the town hall near the _Place des Victoires_.”

Éparvier smiled at her almost conspiratorially. “We will form the provisional government, and act with municipal authority. A daring plan; we will be all among enemies if they hold the _Place_. But the Rue des Petits Peres is not indefensible.” He started, and began leading one of the carts. “Let’s not waste time, we will think along the way.”

 _We_ , he said, not only that they would stand together but that they would _think_ together, strategize together. She followed his lead. “There is an escape route,” she said, “leading away from the _Place des Victoires_ and onto the Rue Vivienne.”

“That is true. We can place a section on that street, then, in addition to one defending against the _Place_. It will be easier to hold the Rue Vivienne, and it will mean we are not boxed in.” He paused for a moment and then added, “If we can hold the Stock Exchange, your plan seems very possible.”

Enjolras felt at once satisfaction and intrigue. She had not considered the connection to the Stock Exchange, but he was right. Their hospital would do better on the smaller street, more tucked away, but they could split their attentions between two theatres of warfare, one more hostile than the other. “Good. You will be organizing these sections, then? You made an admirable leader last evening.”

It took longer than she had expected for Enjolras to get a response, but then they were moving into single file to get through the narrow covered passageway that brought them onto the Rue Montmartre _._ From there it was essentially a straight shot down the Rue Pagerin to the _Place des Victoires_ — a route that would undoubtedly be too perilous to walk as soon as the fighting began in earnest, but at the moment was filled with only a few barricade builders who were happy enough to let them pass. Éparvier’s focus as well as her own, she supposed, was on ensuring their safety and efficiency. Finally, as they reached the mouth of the street, he answered her. “If the men would have me do so.”

“I cannot imagine anyone objecting—“ But at that moment, Enjolras’s attention was abruptly pulled towards the mouth of the northern street, where Combeferre and Joly were leading a contingent of women in aprons of varying whiteness onto the _Place_.

“We have come as instructed,” Combeferre said solemnly, moving aside so the other women could move through. “And Jeanne Prouvaire has donated quite a number of linens for bandages—“ She pointed at the rather overburdened basket hanging off Joly’s arm. 

“Excellent. Éparvier, these are my comrades, Citizen Joly and Citizen Pa—“

But Combeferre interjected abruptly. “Citizen Combeferre, at your service.”

Enjolras could not help a smile. Though she still thought of Combeferre by her maiden name, it surprised her to hear her friend insist upon it now. She was right, though; somehow, to call her by another person’s name seemed a greater injustice here than elsewhere. “Yes, Citizen Combeferre. They are both excellent nurses and today they will man our ambulances.”

“In that case, I am honored to greet you all, and I look forward to our partnership. Let us protect one another.”

“And let us not linger in the square,” added Enjolras. “Our objective is just around the corner, here.” 

They walked single file. The sound of musket-fire echoed in the distance, and she could smell something burning, masked by the ever-present odor of rotting flesh wafting from the leather carts they brought with them. 

It was this which Joly objected to. Once they reached the doors of the town hall and found a place to park the carts for the moment, Joly approached and examined them with a delicate sniff. “These do not seem hygienic.” 

“Neither is bleeding out on a barricade,” said Combeferre, though she too wrinkled her nose as she examined the carts.

“I am convinced that whatever miasmas those things are giving off will make _me_ sick, let alone what infections they will cause in a wounded man.”

Enjolras glanced from Joly to Combeferre and frowned. “Do you really believe so? I will not have us rescue men from death only to have them perish through our ignorance.”

“So we should leave them?” Combeferre’s voice was sharp. “Let us find some straw to line the inside and disperse the odor. It will not be perfect but we have no other option available to us.” 

“What about Courfeyrac’s wagon?”

There was a heavy silence, somehow made heavier by the heat and the smell. Combeferre put her fingers to her temples and sighed. “We must work with what we have at the moment; if it arrives, all the better for us.”

Enjolras watched her friends glare at each other until she could no longer stand it and intervened. “We will make finding better ambulances a priority but until they can be located, these will do. If you are ill, Violette-Blandine, I will nurse you myself.” This roused a smile from Joly. “Now, I see Bahorel approaching with the men I asked for, and a doctor— We may ask him what he thinks.” 

The tension dissipated as they all turned to Bahorel, who led a nervous-looking man of about middle age by the hand. She had the distinct air of a governess pulling her charge away from the toy shop window. “I found several surgeons but this one appears the most experienced and useful,” she said, letting go of his wrist and immediately wiping her hands on her skirt. “He works at the _Hospise de la Vieillesse Hommes_ and has been recommended as a fierce republican.”

“My name is Boutroux.” This was said in a weedy, anxious voice. He may have been a republican, but Enjolras struggled to imagine him as fierce in any sense of the word.

Still, she held out her hand. “Citizen Boutroux, thank you for your service. I am Enjolras, though you will primarily be working with Citizen Combeferre—“ She glanced at where Combeferre was arranging piles of hay along the inside of the tannery carts and felt suddenly protective. “She has as much knowledge of anatomy and surgery as any woman in France.” More, even. “She will assist you competently. And this is Citizen Joly, also a worthy nurse. Her understanding of hygiene cannot be matched.” 

Boutroux did a half-bow and held his hands behind his back. “I hear you intend to have a hospital. May I ask where?”

“You are looking at it.” 

“May we break down the door?” This was from Courfeyrac, who had appeared as if by magic from somewhere behind Joly. There was a faint sheen of sweat on her brow, and her breathing was rather labored. “I ran over,” she said, in response to Enjolras’s raised eyebrow. “There was rather a… a mix-up with the wagon.” 

“What do you mean?”

Ignoring Joly’s look of horror, Courfeyrac explained. 

“Though I have sworn to go through fire for you, my fellow has not, it seems, the same commitment. The quarrel last night frightened him off; he says that I will not be able to have my picnic while the city is blockaded anyway, and that I will have to wait a few days for the wagon. Well, no matter, it seems you have found an alternative.”

Before the debate over the carts could rise again, Enjolras stepped forward to command attention. “Yes, Courfeyrac, we may break down the door.”

Shifting her attention to the half-dozen men behind Bahorel, Enjolras took a few steps over to the entrance of the building, lifting her voice so that it would carry easily above the crowd. “Citizens! Your mayor has abdicated his duty; when the people call upon him, he is nowhere to be seen.” She gestured to the town hall behind her. “The seat of the municipal government is empty, and it falls to us to fill it, in _your_ name, in the name of the citizens, in the name of the Republic!”

Raising her rifle, she used the butt of it to strike a mighty blow against the doors of the town hall, which only shuddered in answer. Éparvier, a moment behind her, lifted his rifle before the crowd and cried out, “ _Vive la republique!_ ” At the instant that he began to beat at the door, Enjolras stepped aside to let Bahorel’s men pass, one of them carrying an axe.

They made quick work of the door. Within a few moments there was the echoing boom of the wood breaking open and a hole was made, more than large enough for a man to fit through. Éparvier stepped aside and allowed Enjolras to pass through first.

“A light— please.” Enjolras had to blink several times to see clearly, and was pleased when Éparvier pressed a sputtering candle into her hand. “Thank you, Citizen.”

Her shoes made a soft tapping noise on the marble as she assessed the ground floor. Deserted, just as she thought. She took a few decisive steps into the doorway of some kind of office with a large desk in the middle. On top of the desk was a chess set, still in mid-game, and a stack of loose papers. This would be her war table. If she could find a map on one of those bookshelves…

“What now?”

Behind her, Combeferre’s voice was soft and Enjolras thought for a few moments before turning around to answer.

“What do you need?”

“Beds for the wounded. We will need a place for the women to cut and sew Jeanne Prouvaire’s linens, and any others they acquire. Boutroux said that he will need a table to operate on, which should be easily found. What else?”

When Combeferre paused a moment, Enjolras nodded, and then turned again to scan the shelves. “I am looking for a map. Will you help me? I’d like to plan our course of action with you. Which routes our ambulances will take, where exactly to position the troops, which areas we need to keep an eye on.”

“You don’t think this is something you should discuss with the men?”

Enjolras cast Combeferre a look of fond bemusement. “Of course it is. But I will discuss it with you _first_.”

“Oh. I-- Thank you.” 

When Combeferre didn’t say anything else, Enjolras straightened up. “If you will find the map for me, I will go and get your hospital ready.” She smiled, ascertaining Combeferre’s agreement from a small nod, and then left the room to attend to the small crowd that had by now assembled in the foyer of the town hall. 

Within a few moments, she had the surgeon’s table. She sent the men to gather any mattresses the surrounding citizens might be willing to lend them, the women to organize them into something resembling a real hospital ward, and then returned to Combeferre, who had found the maps she needed.

“Come, look—“ Combeferre unfolded a map of the city onto the table and smoothed it out with the back of her hand. Her long fingers traced the lines of ink in search of their location. “We are here.”

Enjolras pushed away a fragment of a memory and leaned close. “Yes.” She plucked one of the castles from the chess set and placed it on top of their location on the map. Combeferre’s pointer finger rested atop the corner of the Rue Marie Stuart. 

“The Royal Guard will be concentrated here,” said Enjolras, placing two of the black knights onto the _Place des Victoires_. “And we will have Éparvier’s men here to defend the hospital. We should expect there to be a number of smaller skirmishes around the area, especially along the Rue Montmartre, and—” Combeferre was not moving her finger. 

Enjolras paused. “Yes?”

“The fighting will be very heavy, I suppose. I just— I know you must despair at me, being distracted at a time like this, but the house will not be defended and anything could happen.”

“That is not so. Feuilly, and Prouvaire, and their cohort are still there, as far as I know.”

“Will we check, then? If there are any wounded? Will we bring an ambulance there?”

“Combeferre, it is unlikely there will be any significant fighting on our street.”

“Michelle.”

There was something about the way Combeferre’s eyes narrowed and her nostrils flared that made Enjolras soften. This was the woman she knew, the woman she called family. There was something animalistic in her love for her children. Her ferocity would have frightened anyone else, but Enjolras only felt fond. 

“I will personally check on the house. I swear it to you.” She put her hand over Combeferre’s, over the Rue Marie Stuart. “It is my home, too.” They had spent years in that house, many of them happy ones. “I will not let anything happen to the girls.” 

Combeferre calmed. “I know.”

Enjolras smiled and continued, their hands still pressed together. “As I was saying, the fighting will begin along the Rue Montmartre, before the Guard establish themselves in the _Place des Victoires_.”

“We should send our ambulances further afield while we have the chance. Our nurses here can attend well enough to those at the _Place_ , but it’s the men in the streets who need our help the most. One along the Rue Montmartre, as you said, and another…” Combeferre bent over the map, scrutinizing the details. “Towards Saint Eustache.”

“They are yours to command,” said Enjolras, removing her hand at last and squeezing Combeferre’s shoulder.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to the writing group for your continued constructive criticism!

**Author's Note:**

> This story is heavily inspired by real-life July Revolutionary Lise-Marie Boucot, whose story can be read here if you don't mind spoilers for some of the direction this is going: https://gallica.bnf.fr/ark:/12148/bpt6k55254955/f6.image
> 
> This wonderful map from the Bibliothèque historique de la Ville de Paris has been immensely helpful in our understanding of the geography of the Revolution: https://bibliotheques-specialisees.paris.fr/ark:/73873/pf0000852522/v0001.simple.selectedTab=record
> 
> Further information about women during the July Revolution, the radical politics of revolutionary Frenchwomen, and female insurgency during the long 19th century in general is sourced from the following:
> 
> (Primary Sources):  
> Actions héroïques des Parisiens pendant les journées des 27, 28 et 29 julliet 1830. Paris : Timothée Dehay, 1830. 
> 
> D’Epinal, Pierre Joseph Alexis Roussel. « Account of a Session of the Society of Revolutionary Republican Women.” Paris: Le Chateau des Tuileries, 1802. World History Commons.
> 
> Les héroïnes parisiennes, ou actions glorieuses des dames, leurs traits d'esprit et d'humanité ; quelques victimes parmi elles, pendant les trois journées mémorables de juillet 1830. Paris: P. Guélaud, no date.
> 
> (Secondary Sources):  
> Amann, Peter. “Revolution: A Redefinition.” Political Science Quarterly 77, no. 1 (March 1962): 36-56.
> 
> Barry, David. Women and Political Insurgency: France in the Mid-Nineteenth Century. New York: St. Martin’s Press, 1996. [A/N: I have a LOT of issues with this book but there is a lot of solid information in here nonetheless.]
> 
> Godineau, Dominique. The Women of Paris and their French Revolution. Translated by Katherine Streip. Berkeley: University of California Press, 1998.
> 
> Pointon, Marcia. “Liberty on the Barricades : women, politics and sexuality in Delacroix.” In Women, State and Revolution: essays on power and gender in Europe since 1789, edited by Sian Reynolds, 25-43. Amherst: University of Massachusetts Press, 1987.
> 
> Price, R. D. “Popular Disturbances in the French Revolution.” European Studies Review 1, no. 4 (October 1, 1971): 323-350.


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